


On The Nature Of Hugs

by Reu_Tei



Category: Bump of Chicken (Band)
Genre: Again, And again - only mentions of smut, And it's not all angst, But he's not hopeless, Chama is hopelessly in love, Childhood Friends, Dubious happy ending, Fujiwara is not that much of an ass, M/M, Only a little bit at first, Pining, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 13:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10572549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reu_Tei/pseuds/Reu_Tei
Summary: "I've been acting like such an idiot for the last thirty years or so, haven't I, Hide-chan?"





	

It all starts with a blowjob gone wrong. No bitten off members, luckily, and no irreparably ruined public images, but all the same, a royal screw up on Motoo's part. He’s still reeling from a painful breakup and Chama is there to make things more bearable for him. So as it customarily happens, they end up on the same couch in various states of undress, having a bit of consolatory fun together. Or at least Chama seems to be having fun. It must be a bit too soon for Motoo. As nice as it feels, he’s too busy mourning his latest romance and can’t return Chama's enthusiasm. It was a bad idea to begin with, he admits to himself later. Should have kept clothes on and let Chama pat his back as he cried on his shoulder. Then he wouldn't have to feel an abrupt cease of movement below his waist and wouldn't have to be met with a stunned expression as his eyes focused back on Chama's face. He wouldn't have to feel even more like an utter failure. But since he’s doomed to screw up all his relationships, the realization of his mistake comes seconds too late and he can't shove the uttered name back into his mouth. The wrong one. Chama wipes his lips with the back of his hand, tucks Motoo's limpening cock into his boxers, then fixes his own clothes and leaves. All in a deafening silence. Caught up in a jumbled mix of self-hatred and loneliness, Motoo doesn't try to stop him.

"I can't do this anymore," Chama says forlornly, sitting in Masu's kitchen later that evening, sipping on a glass of water. Masu's girlfriend gives him a dirty look behind Masu's back, a well-deserved one, seeing how he interrupted one of their rare nice evenings at home. Still, she lets them talk in private, retreating back to the living room after offering them drinks and snacks. Masu looks dubiously at a glass of water in Chama's hands, then back at his face.  
"You sure you don't need at least a couple of beers?"  
"Yes, absolutely," Chama huffs. "I don't want to turn into a cliché, I'm feeling pathetic enough as it is. What if I actually get drunk for once and start sending him sappy texts?"  
"Is it, by any chance, about Fuji-kun?" Masu asks cautiously. After receiving a silent nod for a reply, he stands up, goes to a fridge and gets himself a beer, probably deciding he is going to need one for the upcoming drama. "I thought so." A lid pops with a short fizz and Masu is filling his own glass. "So, share your story."  
"You know the story, Hide-chan." Chama gives him a tired glare, and perhaps a hint of resentment is there, too. "I'm sure you do and always did, even though you pretended to be completely unaware."  
"Well, I did. And so did Hiro," Masu admits with a shrug, looking not too guilty about it. "You weren't exactly inconspicuous with your crush." Chama flinches at that but doesn't argue. Can't argue. "If you're not going to share the story, at least share the latest update," Masu says, and this time it sounds more like a demand. Chama sighs, licks his lips hesitantly.  
"There’s still not much to say if I skip the details. I'm sorry, I don't want to give them away. Long story short, I've hurled myself at Fuji-kun again but this time I've hurt myself badly in the process. It's going to smart for a while. And I'm just starting to think that I might be kind of a masochist?" He chuckles bitterly, looking down. When Masu's hand lands on his shoulder, it makes him raise his eyes in surprise. He is greeted with a familiar, even stare. There are sympathy and concern visible at the bottom of Masu's usually opaque gaze, and Chama knows he has his support. Although, he learns with Masu's next words, support doesn't necessarily include solace.  
"So, what's going to happen after the last trace of the ache is gone? Will you go back to the starting line and accelerate?"  
This time Chama doesn't flinch. His face muscles are paralyzed under an onslaught of humiliation. He feels like he has just been bitchslapped — in public too. He doesn't know who to be angry with for feeling like this. Except he does.  
"I've been acting like such an idiot for the last thirty years or so, haven't I, Hide-chan?" he almost chokes on his laugh. "Such a weirdo."  
"Not a weirdo," Masu says with a definitive shake of his head. "But it might be a good idea to change a few things between you and Fuji-kun. It's always been painful to watch, the way you..." He halts and clears his throat, hesitant with the wording. "You showered him with affection and he — well, he let you do that."  
"The way I bounced around him like a lovesick puppy and he enjoyed the attention, you mean," Chama says with a cringe. "I need to go. I'll head home, Hide-chan, thanks for today. Good talk. See you tomorrow, okay?"  
He flees the scene before even more clichés come up, all his to embody.  
The rest of that evening he spends sitting curled over his laptop, digging up the archives. Sorting through all the published interviews and radio recordings and documentaries, and phone videos for good measure. He really needs to drive the point home. The anger is almost gone by now. What's left is a queasy feeling of self-contempt in his throat and a bitter resignation in the corners of his lips.  
"God, I am ridiculous."

Motoo gets a hunch that something is seriously wrong between Chama and him about a week later, when he's done wallowing in misery and writing a bunch of love songs, too self-indulgent to ever be let out of his secret drawer of shame. That is not to say he hasn't been going to work all week. The album recording is in full swing and no one is going to grant him a leave of absence just because his heart has been broken. So he goes to the studio each day, picks a remote corner to hole up in and spends the whole time there, hiding from everyone and pretending to be busy. The other three let him. And they probably come up with a believable excuse for his sudden seclusion to feed to the label bosses, seeing as nobody comes to guilt trip him into actual productivity. And so, while he is left to his own devices, amid the slowly fading images of his woeful romance, Chama's stunned face appears, a silent reminder of urgent matters he should tend to.

It's dreadfully early next morning when he cautiously steps into the lounge room, glancing around and finding that all his bandmates are in. The setting is far from ideal; he would rather it were just Chama and him, alone and significantly later into the day. Motoo doesn't exactly avoid looking at his friends but tries not to meet their eyes as he waves at them and shuffles deeper into the room, choosing an armchair next to Hiro's. Masu is lounging in a loveseat on the further side, leafing through a magazine with a bored expression. Hiro has a bowl of bite-sized, animal-shaped crackers on his lap and he doesn't look like he's going to part with it until it's empty. Both men greet him with warm smiles. There are no teasing remarks, no questions about his emotional or physical condition and he's grateful for that. Although Hiro does indicate his presence by throwing a cracker at Chama's back and telling him to wake up, because "Fuji-kun is here".  
"Let him sleep, he's half-dead," Masu chides, then looks at Motoo and explains, "He's been working like a man possessed. Whenever we saw him, he was either recording or practicing, or harassing Mori-san with a thousand new ideas each day. I think our producer has begun to outright hide from him lately. And today we come here and here he is, passed out on a couch."  
And indeed, Chama is out like a light before Motoo's eyes, curled up on a narrow couch and facing away from the entire world. His face is buried into a crease between a pillow and the couch's backrest. Covered from feet to chin with both Masu's and Hiro's jackets and snoring softly, he is the picture of burned-out. Motoo feels a pang of guilt looking at the small frame, at a mop of blond hair sticking from under a heap of clothes. He tries not to let it show on his face. Hiro has already returned to his snack bowl but Masu is still staring at him — not accusingly, just attentively. Motoo points toward Chama with his chin. "Has he been," he begins but doesn't know how to proceed. Has he been eating well, sleeping well? But Chama, even at his lowest, can take better care of himself than Motoo ever will. Then has he been going around cursing Motoo's name and lineage down to the seventh generation? He stifles a chuckle, picturing that. No, not likely. He offended Chama but it wasn't the end of the world. It never is. He will apologize properly, and maybe for a while there will be some residual stiffness between them, like after their bigger fights, but soon enough they'll be back on track. "I should go find Tetchan," he says in the end. "Did he mention inquisition along with my name yet?"  
"I've heard something like that, yes," Hiro chirps, busy sorting his crackers by shape and size. There is a palmful of tiny fish in his left hand and his right one is digging into the mixed lot.  
"He did want to see you but he's not mad," Masu clarifies, giving Hiro a reproachful look. Hiro is too absorbed in bowl-fishery to even notice it, never mind care. Motoo smiles a little at the sight before him. He can feel the familiarity of it engulf him with tranquil warmth, melting away lingering sadness and loneliness in his system. Maybe he should have come to them sooner.  
"I'd better go then. Tell Chama I wanted to talk to him when he wakes up. Don't wake him up!" He looks pointedly at Hiro, aware that it will have zero effect on him. "By the way, what have you guys been doing here all this time? Don't you have recording to worry about?  
"Nah, it's all yours to worry about now," Hiro replies with an ominous grin. "We're guarding this guy here. And our jackets. Go see Mori before he catches a whiff of you and comes here to bite your head off. I don't want to witness a bloodbath so early in the morning."  
Masu rolls his eyes to that and Motoo, already on his way out, does the same.

Their producer whines and groans and lays a few well-aimed kicks on his guilty conscience but never once demands an explanation for his ill timed disappearance. Motoo wonders how far his story has spread. Hopefully no further than the four people closest to him.  
He is still mostly absorbed by his own inner turmoil when some peculiarities in Chama's behavior become too obvious to ignore. The next few days after his humble return his schedule is packed to the brim with solo work, but when he finds an opening to go see his bandmates, Chama is never there. Motoo tries to make offhand inquiries of his whereabouts and gets equally offhand answers that never seem to vary much. It's an ever nonchalant "dunno" from Hiro and some kind of valid excuse from Masu: Chama is tinkering with his part of a song, Chama is unconscious at home, Chama is stuck in the restroom with a stomach bug. As far as Motoo's concerned, Chama is doing exactly what he did not long ago. Lying low. Licking the wounds. Bound by a shared secret, he can ask little and only make light of this hide-and-seek, bringing up ninjas and Western spies alongside Chama's elusive techniques. Although it's only when his jokes gain a bitter ring to them that it works. Chama magically reappears before his eyes, buoyant as ever, albeit still avoiding him like a plague. Watchful now, Motoo sees right through his clumsy dodges. The band exits a conference room after a meeting and Chama is the first one out the door. Hiro heads out to buy coffee and Chama suddenly remembers he needs to talk to a technician about this thing or the other. Chama enters a room, spies Motoo alone inside and promptly leaves without an explanation. Never quite making it look hostile. Never quite meeting his eyes. What the hell, Motoo wants to ask, but then, he knows exactly what it's about.  
Two weeks pass in the same evasive, awkward fashion. Motoo tries to give Chama time and space, he really does. Only the longer he waits the less it seems like Chama will ever close this newly developed gap between them. So at long last, done with expecting the mountain to come, he goes to Chama's house.  
It's the dead of the night when he arrives at Chama's front door. Their schedules are so messed up by now that all four of them barely register the time of the day. He rings the bell and knocks, and waits. As expected, Chama isn't too keen on letting him in. Motoo is sure he's home though — the light is on in one of the rooms. Well then.  
_"Let me in,"_ he texts, banging on the door and receiving no answer on both ends. _"Open the damn door or I'll—"_ He erases _"kick it in"_ and finishes the message with a more believable, thus more threatening _"use my spare key to open it"_. Apparently Chama feels threatened enough to grace him with a reply. After a few minutes of barely contained seething Motoo gets a _"Chill."_ and a _"Wait there."_ , and shortly after, Chama himself appears. From sideways, to Motoo's utter embarrassment; climbing the stairs, carrying grocery bags in one hand and his phone in the other.  
"Are you here to kill me?" he asks, coming closer and fishing a bunch of keys out of a hidden pocket of his baggy shorts. He still doesn't look at Motoo's face directly but his lips are twisted into a small, sarcastic smirk. Motoo doesn't let embarrassment deter him. He lifts his chin and stares Chama square in the eye, as useless as it is with a one-way connection. Then he says, "We need to talk. I can't let you run away anymore."

They steer clear of sitting areas like kotatsu, armchairs, or couches. Especially the latter. Those are dangerous and can bring about all kinds of unwanted memories. A strategic decision already made, Motoo leads the way to the dining room where a tall, square table stands, surrounded by four fancy looking chairs. Chama ordered it long ago from a catalog of European furniture, allured by its Old World vibe or whatever it was that captured his heart, and didn't use it by designation ever since. His family, who usually visited as a mob, preferred to dump obligatory souvenirs from home on top of it, for Chama to make use of or get rid of later. The band, when it was Chama's turn to accommodate them for a night in, ignored the thing altogether, choosing the floor to sprawl over. Right now though, the slightly rigid vibe about this table is perfect for the conversation Motoo intends to have. He waits for Chama to choose a seat, then sits himself contrariwise. This way he won't need to chase his gaze all over the room. Motoo adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose and fixes Chama with a stern look. Chama rolls his eyes at the air of strict urgency Motoo feels himself emanating and lifts an eyebrow in a silent invitation. Motoo dives in headfirst.  
"Will you please stop acting like a heroine in shoujo manga?"  
"That's the point, to stop acting like one," Chama fires right back, like he's been rehearsing it. He probably has. Motoo frowns at the meaning of his words, a little deterred now. But not enough to let his aggravation go just yet.  
"So that's your method? To act like you can barely stand me?"  
Chama sighs to that. The spark of annoyance in his eyes goes out, and his face is a carefully crafted neutral mask when he says, "I act like a normal friend, Fuji-kun. I know I do. I've been watching others and apparently this is the right way to act around you."  
"How is it proper," Motoo splutters, "if you keep avoiding me?"  
What's got into you, why are you being so difficult, he wants to ask but doesn't. The answer to that is obvious as ever. Instead he asks, "Are you punishing me for... for what happened? Are you trying to teach me a lesson?" Chama shakes his head, but Motoo only squints at him accusingly. "No? Because it looks like you are."  
"No. Not at all. It wasn't your fault. I don't think it was. It's not you who should learn a lesson. I'm sorry. I overreacted."  
Chama presses his hands to his face and rubs it with force. When he lowers his fingers, for a brief moment his skin is marked with pale spots and red blotches. Don't rub it, stupid, it will make your precious skin wrinkle sooner, Motoo doesn't say.  
"I'm sorry about what happened," he says instead — hesitantly, not thrilled by the sensitive topic they've slipped into. But it feels like the right time to apologize for his own mistakes.  
"You were heartbroken," Chama counters. As if it's a guilt contest. "I shouldn't have forced myself upon you. I shouldn't have started doing that in the first place."  
Motoo hasn't given it much thought yet, so he can neither agree nor disagree.  
"Can we make up now?" he coaxes with a small, tentative smile. Chama hesitates, but eventually nods. Motoo's smile becomes wider and wobblier. "Let's hang out then? Right now, just the two of us. Let's play something, or eat!"  
To that, Chama shakes his head. The dashed hope of a painless reconciliation swooshes like a ball of lead towards the pit of Motoo's stomach. "But it's been forever since you cooked me dinner," he tries to joke and cringes at how pathetic it sounds. Perhaps sitting at the formal table was a bad idea. He could have pounced on Chama otherwise. He could have tackled him to the floor and held him down until Chama either kicked him off or opened up to him. At this point, walking around the table even for a modest hug would be beyond ridiculous. Chama can feel the awkwardness of the scene to the full extend too, judging by the way he fidgets in his chair looking slightly mortified.  
"You should go home, Fuji-kun," he announces and all but jumps from his seat to see him out.  
Never in his entire life has Motoo been so humbled by Chama. There was one time when he said a song Motoo had been pouring over for a week sounded generic, and Motoo thought nothing could be worse than that. There is an electrified whirlwind of thoughts buzzing in his head as he's going home that night. Thoughts like "so it is a punishment after all" and "what about my feelings?" and "thanks for asking for my opinion before reforming our friendship like that,” text-shaped and ready to fly, but he lets none of them leave his fingertips.

Things change again after that. Chama re-emerges properly, now present in their company not only in body but in spirit too. He smiles and laughs sincerely, always a ray of sunshine in the room, and this time Motoo is not shut out from his attention. If anything, it's being distributed so equally between the three of them, Motoo can't help but feel something is even wronger now than it was before. Chama's recent words come to mind; "I act like a normal friend,” "This is the right way to act around you.” They sting quite a bit. They mean no more clinging with silly coos and smooches, no playful hassle, no lingering stares that convey a familiar fondness across the room. And they have a solid reason behind them, Motoo is certain. There's a hunch in a far corner of his mind about the nature of it, but he has neither time nor will to sit down and reflect on it. The new album is almost finished by now and they have too many loose ends to tie up before the release to let personal issues distract them. He can survive without a few old touchy-feely habits, Motoo convinces himself, and lets this conviction carry him through the last days of recording.  
Then, on the day of celebration, it falls apart right under his feet.  
It is admittedly less dramatic than Motoo makes it sound in his head. Nothing scandalous happens, and most likely nobody even notices anything out of ordinary. What happens is this: Chama bursts into their private room in a fancy restaurant, a brilliant smile on his face, a bunch of jacketless CDs in his left hand and his right one open for everyone who wants a giddy, congratulatory hug. Motoo watches as Masu raises from his seat to welcome Chama with a grin of his own and a pat on the back of his head, as Hiro follows suit, chewing busily and trying not to bare his teeth, undoubtedly smeared with food, in a gross smile. Chama turns to him then — a second too early, while Motoo is still ordering his body to move. There is a brief pause, a reserved anticipation in a stare, and the moment is gone. Chama strikes a dorky pose waving a CD before his nose, then says, "Great job, Fuji-kun!" and goes to settle on a vacant seat on Mori's left. Motoo smiles pleasantly and listens with half an ear to the merry chatter as his eyes rove over Masu's and Hiro's faces in search of the slightest hint of reaction to what just occurred. But apparently it's all in his head. No one finds it weird or out of character that Chama didn't demand a hug from him when he usually would. Motoo raises his sake cup to a toast and cringes into it at how ridiculously spoiled his thoughts sound. It is such a trifle, a mere hug. Still, he knows ordering himself to be a good, reasonable person won't make the foul knot that has started to coil up in his chest go away.

The next day he catches Chama unawares in the machine room; a small, soundproof, unfrequented booth fondly referred to as "Alaska" by the studio locals. A perfect place to pick a fight. Chama is crouching low, checking up on his equipment, and Motoo stands tall above him — lips pursed, eyes squinted behind a thick curtain of hair, no doubt an image of insecure demand.  
"I would like that hug after all," he says, way more haughtily than he intended to, glad his bangs and poor lighting can hide what feels like a very juvenile blush on his cheeks. Chama's expression transforms from a feigned nonchalance to a more honest wariness.  
"Maybe later? I'm trying to fix this..."  
"No. Right now."  
"Well, we don't always get what we want, do we?" Chama sing-songs trying to joke his way out, although it doesn't sound like a joke at all. There is no humor in his eyes. That's right, Motoo thinks spitefully, let's see your mask fall off.  
"So now you won't touch me either, among other things," he concludes after a long, tense pause. Chama finally raises to his feet and fixes him with a hard stare.  
"Fuji-kun, please go out for a walk and return when you can think straight again."  
Motoo decides to ignore that.  
"For how long are you going to be like this?"  
"For the rest of your life, I guess."  
And now they're back to teenage squabbling. Motoo lets out an affronted huff and says, "Spoken like a true friend."  
"I try," Chama fires back, looking beyond done. "What do you want, Fuji-kun?"  
"I want my Chama back."  
"I'm right here. I haven't gone anywhere."  
How does one counter that argument in a serious, mature conversation? Is there a point in trying to prove to Chama that he hasn't been here for many weeks now? Motoo repeats "reasonable and understanding" in his head again and again, like a mantra. It doesn't have much of an effect.  
"We aren't going to fix this, are we?"  
"I was fixing something before you came here. Do you need help too?"  
Motoo exhales forcefully through his nose, blinks back angry tears and stomps out of the room.  
Hiro catches him just around the corner.  
"The cold war is still raging?"  
"As you could probably see through that see-through door," Motoo says with a bitter sniff. "So you know what's going on?"  
"I could make an educated guess."  
"And you know what's wrong with Chama?"  
Hiro gives him a look. "I'm sure you've already figured it out yourself."  
"I wouldn't be so sure," Motoo mumbles, cooling down to the point where he can start analyzing things again. "I haven't been thinking straight lately. Can you help me?"  
"Not on an empty stomach. Treat me to nabe and we'll see how salvageable your relationship is."

"Not very salvageable," Hiro concludes an hour later, after eating single-handedly almost an entire pot of nabe and listening to Motoo's side of the story.  
"Tell me something I don't know," Motoo comments darkly.  
"If I were him," Hiro muses, gently swaying tea inside his cup and ignoring Motoo's comment altogether, "I'd pack my stuff and move to Brazil, as far away from you as possible. I'm really glad I'm not him though, because we can't leave the band just like that. Wouldn't it be pitiful, to perish from the wrathful hand of our manager?"  
"Can you get to the point?" Motoo snaps, then lowers his voice to a sullen mutter. "Are you saying he hates me that much?"  
Hiro gives him that look again, only this time it is even more exasperated. "You weren't exaggerating about not being able to think straight. You know what, I can't offer you any advice after all. At least not right now. Hide-chan promised to punch me in the face if I so much as stick my nose into your business, and I already have. And I don't want to be punched. So try to clear your head first. Go for a walk, look at the stars, listen to the wind and let that one thought you already have in there take shape. Then give me a call."  
Motoo does as instructed. After they call it a day at work, he rides a train to the river, sits himself on a concrete riverbank and looks at the tiny, prickly city stars. The evening is windless so he listens to his own thoughts instead. An hour passes, maybe two, and finally, amid a fading cacophony of "It's not fair," "Why does it feel like my fault?" and a dozen heated inner dialogues, that one thought takes shape.  
"Oh..." he says under his breath. "That's why."

Until next morning is too long a wait to share this discovery; Motoo dials Hiro's number as soon as he steps off the last train's carriage and starts walking towards his house.  
"That was fast." Hiro's laugh sounds a bit raspy. It would appear some of them get to sleep at night after all. "So you've found the right answer?"  
"I suppose I have," Motoo says with a self-deprecating smile. "Alright, only this once you have my permission to call me an idiot. This is your chance."  
"I'll save it for a better occasion," Hiro promises before his tone changes from playful to a slightly more careful one. "What brought you to the right conclusion?  
Slowing his steps, Motoo tilts his head back and looks at the sky again. The weather started to change a while ago; a chilly wind has brought tattered clouds to Tokyo and the stars are barely visible now, blinking faintly here and there through tears in the murky darkness.  
"I just put myself in his place and connected all the dots," he says distractedly, searching for familiar constellations, with little result. Clouds are getting thicker and the next blast of wind makes him shiver and quicken his pace.  
"So what are you going to do now?"  
"I don't know," he grunts, chilly weather and guilty conscience making him highly miserable. "Is there anything I can do? To make it better for Chama, that is. Other than let him go live in Brazil? Maybe I should just leave things the way they are, if that's his chosen way to get over me."  
Hiro takes his time to mull over that, and for a few moments Motoo can only hear steady breathing in his phone speaker.  
"But you're not entirely happy with it, I suppose?" Hiro says eventually.  
"I'm not. I hate this distant attitude. It's like he is a completely different person with a familiar face," Motoo grumbles, by now not even caring how petulant he sounds. It's not about him anyway. They're straying from the point and he doesn't mind straying a little farther.  
"You're exaggerating, Fujiwara. He's the same old Chama, just more chill around you. You can try and make yourself believe he's finally matured into a cool adult."  
"What if I don't want a cool adult?"  
He's almost home now — the gusts of wind from behind have been jostling him into clumsy trots for the better part of the way. He is frozen to the bone and his face is probably the same deathly purple shade his bare hands are. The one he is clenching his phone with feels like it's going to fall off any minute now. A thought of a long, hot bath makes him want to end this conversation sooner. And preferably never return to it again.  
"Do you want a love-struck fool then?" Hiro asks, making Motoo sputter for a moment.  
"Do you really need to be so crude?"  
"Crude wording aside, that's what you want!"  
"So what if I do!" Motoo finally snaps. He flings his front door open and slams it shut behind his back. "I want him to be genuinely open-hearted and cheerful around me, is it too much to ask? And I want him to stop clinging to other people because it looks like he only does it to prove a point!"  
"Wow," Hiro says after a heavy pause. "That, just now, sounded really self-centered. By the way, ever heard of a dog in the manger?"  
"Don't get cocky with me," Motoo huffs sullenly, all fight gone. "I've read more books than you."  
Hiro chuckles at that, simmering down as well. Motoo waits for his last word that will bring this conversation to a conclusion, whatever they may be. And then he will go and maybe drown himself in the bath.  
"I can suddenly see Hide-chan's point, you know," Hiro says. "I don't want to stick my nose into your messed up relationship anymore. I know I'm not one to say this, but maybe some growing up is in order. Chama is doing it right now. You should try that too some time or other, Fuji-kun."

He doesn't try to drown himself that night. In fact, it is not until next morning — or early afternoon, as is reported in a number of angry texts from Masu and Hiro — that he remembers about yesterday's discovery and the concurrent dilemma he needs to deal with. Really, Motoo thinks while starting to fill his bathtub just out of spite, he would rather all the complicated relationships disappeared from his life for a while. There's been too much drama lately. Only, he tries not to remind himself and fails, a great deal of it comes from himself. It's not Chama who pesters people day and night and demands they act according to his wishes. Chama is doing the growing up thing — even now, judging by the remarkable lack of text messages from him. Motoo sends a quick _"Almost there"_ to the other two, settles in the tub and closes his eyes.  
Hiro's insinuation towards his immaturity must have left a deeper dent in his pride than he detected early on. He can feel the full depth of it now. A long bath has improved his mood to a degree, but after receiving a pair of twin death glares upon his arrival at the radio station, he has every intention of being difficult again. If not during the show then at least between the takes. What makes him reconsider though is a quiet, long-suffering look from their Pontsuka producer and a telling not-look from Chama. There are ten minutes left before the first part of the scheduled recording for the day is over, and the producer tells him to wait until his bandmates are finished with their work. "They're doing so well today," the man says pleasantly while his eyes scream, "No thanks to you, Fujiwara-san."  
"My apologies," Motoo mutters with a guilty bow, meaning it for once. Masu makes a scary face at him from the other side of the soundproof glass window and Hiro shakes his fist a few times while Chama keeps talking a mile a minute, making last announcements and studiously ignoring him.  
"And today's last song is," Motoo sees him say and reads a name from a list on a control panel along with the others. The song's first notes come from the producer's headphones as he tugs them down and leaves them hanging around his neck.  
"Nice of you to contribute to the show, Fujiwara-san," he says, looking even more exasperated now that the recording doesn't require his attention. "You may go inside and join your colleagues. By all means."  
Motoo's colleagues greet him with unimpressed stares, tired stretching and loud moans about insufferably lazy people they have to work with. Amidst all the familiar noise is a small silence Motoo can't ignore. Chama is leafing through a stack of papers before him, looking only half present in the room. His headphones are still on, as is his smile, although it is dangerously wavering at the corners of his lips. If he lets it slip, Motoo thinks, he will look terrified. There are two immediate options he can come up with to explain Chama's shaken state. It's either that Motoo's looks have taken a sudden devastating turn for the worse or a certain someone didn't keep his nose as far away from their relationship as he was keen on doing yesterday. Despite the bitchfest Hiro and Masu are still running, none of them actually make a move towards the door, to go and get some coffee or fresh air. As they keep their butts anchored to their chairs, Motoo's suspicions skyrocket. He takes a seat opposite Hiro, shakes his bangs off his glasses and makes the most questioning expression he's capable of. Hiro gives him an innocuous look in return and shrugs lightly. When Motoo's glare doesn't lessen one bit, he sighs, takes his phone out and types a quick message. _"I didn't tell him,"_ it reads. _"He overheard me and Hide-chan on accident, probably guessed from the context."_ The next one arrives shortly after. _"Don't try to corner him, he'll bolt."_ No kidding, Motoo thinks, sneaking a glance at Chama before sending a few choice words and a promise of imminent payback Hiro's way. Chama discusses work with Masu, letters they're going to read and news they're going to cover, but, even this busy, he looks awfully jittery. So their friends have adopted a role of a double buffer, it seems, protecting Chama from whatever reaction Motoo might hurt him with. And this room must be a demilitarized zone of sorts. _"Great,"_ he texts Hiro with an accusing scowl. _"Am I a villain now?"_ Hiro merely shrugs at him again. _"Not my idea,"_ Motoo receives and doesn't have time to retort to because the producer's assistant opens the door and asks them to put their headphones on.  
They had had two more shows scheduled to record today but their management canceled the last one on short notice due to some executive decision or other. And even if Motoo had wanted to be stubborn and corner Chama for a heart-to-heart between the takes, he would have changed his mind within the next twenty minutes. That's how long they last recording this piece. The whole thing sounds so painfully awkward, what with the countless halts and missteps and hollow pauses, that their producer can only gawk at them in mute puzzlement from behind the window. They sound like they've just met each other for the first time and didn't click. No, not exactly so. Hiro and Masu do their best to liven up the mood with jokes and anecdotes. Only they've never been awfully talkative so their efforts have more of the opposite effect. Motoo, the talkative one, can't participate. He is too busy alternately watching Chama come apart at the seams and trying not to watch. In that sense, Chama is like a train wreck you can't look away from. Everyone knows how much pride he takes in being the MC of Pontsuka and how hard he beats himself up over every mistake. One more stutter, Motoo thinks numbly, one more hiccup and he's going to break. And cry. If it's his mere presence at the radio station that has caused this atrocity of a recording, he should have stayed at home today, in his bathtub, safely away from people he might end up screwing over. Chama stutters again. He doesn't cry. He does look like he wants to slam his head against a desk top though.  
Stop, Motoo tells him inwardly. Don't do this to yourself. I get the message already. I'll leave you alone and we'll even steer clear of each other as much as possible until you can stand my company again. I'm sorry that our mindless little arrangement brought us to such a mess. I'm sorry I didn't recognize your continuous affection for what it truly was. I'm sorry I can't reciprocate in a way that would make you happy. But at least now I know what to do to stop making you completely unhappy. And I'll do it. You won't need to move to Brazil.  
Across the desk, Hiro chokes on his sip of water. Chama and Masu pause mid-word, and Motoo can see in a gap between their heads as the producer performs a picture perfect facepalm. Motoo barely refrains from doing the same. As if he hasn't sabotaged everyone's work enough today, now he's voicing random thoughts in the middle of the recording. The producer presses something on the control panel with dark finality on his face and announces into the mic that they'll need to do a retake. Not a minute later, Motoo is out the door and leaving the building.  
He texts Hiro about an hour later, when it's safe to assume that the band is done with the overtime and isn't cursing the ground he walks on anymore. _"I'm going to do the growing up thing too,"_ he types, squinting at the brightness of his screen inside a dark cocoon of pillows and blankets. _"I'll need your help with damage control."_

The post-production stage is a quick and painless affair for the band. They aren't even required to discuss things between each other. All they need to do is look at sketches and designs offered to them and nod in agreement.  
Their first rehearsal for the upcoming tour though, that one is a disaster. Maybe not for the label bosses, but to a musician's ear it brings up all the issues the band has been trying to brush under the carpet lately. Chama can't focus. He can barely hear Motoo's voice, as though his ears are stuffed with cotton balls. The bass part sounds fine when its main task is to be in sync with the drums, but as soon as he tries to back up the vocals, it gets all over the place. Chama can tell by the growing confusion on the staff members' faces that he's not the only one who noticed the odd state the band is in today. It's not only about his sudden selective deafness. None of his bandmates bat an eyelash at his abysmal performance, playing and singing on and on like everything is in perfect order. People in the room exchange meaningful glances but nobody dares to bring the band to a stop while they're in this bizarre mood. Chama's chief technician loses it first.  
"Naoi-san, a moment, please!" she calls out frantically as soon as they're done ruining yet another song. Her face is tense and her tone is almost pleading as she's trying to find a way to convey how much he sucks without hurting his feelings. In the end, she decides to lie. "We're having a bit of a problem with the input signal on your amp, so if we could have a short break to fix it, please? Five minutes will be enough!"  
Chama simply nods, unplugs his bass and slips it off. He passes it to a second technician, forcing a thank-you smile for the guy, then mumbles about wanting a cup of coffee and heads out of the studio. He's half expecting to hear worried or maybe even derisive whispers behind his back when he's stepping out the door, but no, of course there won't be any, not while the other three are still inside. The whispers and the rumors will start once all of them are out of earshot.

The car door opens and shuts with a distinct clap, the one that tells Chama it's Hiro even before he can turn his head and see it for himself. Hiro gives him a wide, innocent stare from a passenger seat, then blindly gropes for a seatbelt and buckles up.  
"What?" Chama deadpans.  
"What?" Hiro parrots. "Let's go. I want coffee too."  
"I wasn't... I'm not... Get out," Chama sighs, giving up on trying to come up with a convincing lie. He doesn't want a drink — only a long, calming ride alone with his thoughts. "The nearest coffee shop is three minutes away from here, you can walk."  
"No. I want a ride." Hiro also drops pretense. He stays in good humor though; a smile is still on his lips and his eyes are kind. "Let's go wherever you were headed to, but I'm coming along."  
Chama sighs again and starts the car.  
They go to buy coffee and pastries after all, but some ways farther from the studio than the shop Chama tried to send Hiro off to. They ride in a companionable silence through what seems like every traffic jam they can find in the center of Tokyo, and all this time Chama rehearses answers to the questions that will be coming his way soon enough. Half an hour later, they're only a street away from his house and turn right to a coffee shop he frequents in the mornings. As well as in the afternoons, and sometimes in the evenings, depending on how crazy the band's schedule is. Chama buys four coffees and enough pastry to feed the entire staff team, as a token of an apology for being such a trouble today. Hiro helps him choose and then helps him carry several bags back to the car. He keeps an easy chatter going all the while but doesn't utter a word about anything other than sweets, new coffee recipes and the weather these days. They flop down on their seats and Chama turns the key in the ignition, and Hiro still hasn't broached the subject of the conversation he clearly tagged along for. And then, they're heading towards the studio again. Bringing back soft drinks and unresolved issues.  
"Chama, you need to get a grip." Hiro jumps a bit and shoots him a startled glance. Chama glares straight ahead, squeezing the steering wheel with sweaty fingers. "You know this can't go on forever. This mess you started and got Fuji-kun into will only keep building up until one day you won't be able to stay in the same band anymore. And wouldn't it just suck for all of us." Hiro is so quiet by his side Chama could have forgotten he was even there. He doesn't dare to look anywhere but ahead, at the road, until he's done talking. "And you need to get a grip on yourself real quick because the tour is just around the corner and you and Fuji-kun not only act like strangers but sound like ones too. You're going to let our fans down, as well as the staff, the label and all of us. Especially Fuji-kun. So stop acting like a fucking victim and sort yourself out. And then sort it all out between you and him. You wimp." Chama turns to Hiro for a second and tries to give him a teasing grin. His lips tremble a bit. "Those were your lines to deliver, you know."  
Hiro blinks at him once, twice, still looking a little dazed, then processes his words and chuckles weakly. "Yeah. Those were mine. Good job though. Looks like you don't need my help anyway. You have it all figured out."  
"Not yet," Chama says, already spotting the building he's going to drop Hiro off at, along with all the drinks and bags. "But I'm getting there."

They wait for five minutes, then ten. When fifteen minutes pass and there are no signs of Chama or Hiro reappearing in the studio any time soon, Masu apologizes to their staff members and announces a lunch break.  
"He's been complaining about a terrible headache since early morning," he informs Chama's chief tech in particular. "But he wanted to come to the first rehearsal anyway."  
Masu's face is twisted with such genuine concern for their ailing friend that Motoo has no more doubts who he should thank for his own much needed solitude a few weeks ago. The technician gasps and sighs at the news and expresses her hopes that Naoi-san will get better soon. She doesn't look entirely convinced, despite Masu's best efforts. Still, she makes a grab at her assistant and they both promptly bow out, promising to come back whenever Naoi-san is ready to resume his practice. Motoo is somewhat tempted to crack a joke about Masu's impressive bullshitting skills, but he can feel now is really not the best time. Besides, they still have people lingering around. He is half a breath away from opening his mouth to suggest they go and find Hiro, who has apparently drowned in a toilet, when Masu opens his and asks everyone to leave the room. Motoo gulps his words down. No search parties then; they're staying for a talk. He beats Masu to it, as soon as the remaining staff members file out of the studio.  
"We're screwed, aren't we, Hide-chan?" he asks, sounding more timid than he would like to. It's not exactly his fault this time, after all.  
For several long minutes Masu doesn't say anything. He goes back to his drum kit, settles behind it and starts tapping an idle rhythm, evidently deep in thought. Motoo fidgets, unsure of what to do with himself. Should he stay rooted to his place and wait until Masu graces him with an answer? Or should he go and take his guitar from its stand and join Masu's beat for a jam? Or maybe leaving the room to find Hiro would be the best option after all. Masu ends his impromptu solo with a smash on cymbals and raises his eyes to fix Motoo with a direct stare. His foot still pumps a bass drum pedal and the heavy silence between them is accentuated by a slow, steady beat. To Motoo, it totally sounds like a tread of the impending doom.  
"If you punch me, I'll punch you too," he warns just in case, remembering how vicious fights between Masu and Hiro used to be. Masu snorts and stills his foot on the pedal.  
"As if punching you could fix any of this," he finally says before raising from his seat and moving around the drum kit. He crouches by the bass drum, then looks up at Motoo, making sure to catch his eyes again. "You think of us as equals. And in many ways we are. But when it comes to music, this is you," he points at the top star of their emblem printed in black on the drum's membrane. "And this is us."  
Motoo watches Masu's index finger circle three other stars. A wave of familiar irritation raises inside him, hot and fizzy — his usual reaction to hearing that he is more important to the band than the other three.  
"That's just not true, Hide-chan," he starts fervently, "You of all people should know better than..."  
"Be quiet now," Masu cuts into his rant. "Sit down and wait. I'll join you in a minute."  
Motoo huffs indignantly and stays on his feet, arms akimbo. Masu throws a pointed look at a spot on the floor, the one Motoo refuses to lower his butt on. Nobody moves. Masu sighs. Temporarily giving up on the floor battle, he goes to Chama's equipment section and takes a pink Fender from its stand, the one Chama had been playing today. Back to the center of the room, he sits down — cross-legged, with the bass on his lap — and motions for Motoo to do the same.  
"Let's play."  
"What do you want to play?" Motoo asks dubiously, marveling at how alien pastel pink looks in Masu's tanned hands. Only Chama can pull off colors like that without looking completely ridiculous. Probably because of his hair. Masu tries a few chords, plucks the strings experimentally and flexes his fingers, shaking off the quickly accumulating tension.  
"Something simple," he says sheepishly. "Let's make it unplugged. Any ideas?"  
"You Were Here?" Motoo suggests after a moment's thought.  
"I wouldn't call it simple. But alright. I think I remember how to play that one."  
Two failed attempts at an intro later, they move into the first verse. The song is already slow-paced but Masu, inexperienced as he is, makes it positively lethargic. His rhythm is impeccable though, courtesy of being a drummer for the last twenty years. Motoo adjusts to the new pace and sings his lines in sync, even though it sounds more like a melodic syllable reading. They make it through the first chorus and Masu presses his palm to the strings, muting the last traces of the sound.  
"I can't feel my fingertips," he says with a pained awe, starting to flex his fingers again. "But it wasn't too bad, right? You didn't expect me to be good so you knew you had to make an effort too. The thing is, normally you carry a song forward as you see fit and we back you up, adjusting along the way. Not the other way round. I know you know that, don't give me that look. But what happens now is not normal. I can't begin to fathom what's going on in Chama's head while he plays. What I know is that he couldn't hear you today. But you can still make it work. What? Still no clue?" Masu reads from Motoo's puzzled expression. "You're so used to Chama's unfaltering support that you forgot how to make an effort with him. You'll have to listen to him this time. Try and hear him."

After a while they decide to cancel the rehearsal and switch to individual practice so, all in all, Hiro's prolonged restroom trip makes little difference. When he finally shows up in the studio, loaded with food and Chama-less, Motoo greets him with a snide "Oh, you didn't accidentally flush yourself down the toilet after all.” Masu's reaction is less forgiving.  
"I can guess why Chama isn't here," he says, taking a cup holder from Hiro's extended hand. One of the four sections is already empty. "What's your excuse for leaving without a warning for longer than an hour?"  
"I was buying you coffee?" Hiro tries. Predictably, it doesn't work. Hiro pouts in response to Masu's sceptically raised eyebrows. "It's true though, I was there! And it's not fair! Jeez, maybe I should fall in love too if that's such a good excuse to you."  
Motoo manages to keep his face straight but his fingers twitch around a cup. As if on cue, both men look at him, just in time to see his coffee slush against the plastic lid. Motoo scowls at them.  
"You should have called," Masu chides but his tone is no longer stern. Hiro can sense it too; an easygoing smile is back on his face in an instant.  
"I couldn't. We were having a pep talk. I totally helped."  
"Did you, really? So, where is Chama now?"  
Hiro shrugs, casting a furtive look around the room, then another one at a colorful row of guitars. Probably trying to decide if it's even worth the effort today.  
"He said he had some urgent business at home," he says, shoving his hands deep into the front pockets of his jeans. Motoo begins to slowly shift back towards the door.  
"At home? Home, as in here in Tokyo or back in Sakura?"  
"Here," Hiro says and snickers. "If you think you're being discreet, Fujiwara, I have bad news for you."  
Motoo shoots a glance at Masu, seeking support. Individual practice can wait. Masu nods. Motoo reaches for the door handle behind his back.  
"So... I'll see you guys tomorrow," he says and all but tumbles out the door. Already way down the corridor, he hears Hiro try to pry a love confession out of Masu. "But think of all the leeway we'd get!" he makes out before the door clicks shut, and then he can hear nothing but the stomping of his feet against the carpeted floor.  
Motoo is reluctant to call while his lone message ( _"I'm coming to your place"_ ) remains unanswered, and so the only option he is left with is to go to Chama's house uninvited and hope he is still at home, tending to that urgent business of his. And if that's the case, Motoo should hope it's not so urgent that Chama won't even let him in, never mind agree to another heart-to-heart. But it must happen today, without a delay. If he starts planning it in a more rational, convenient way, he knows he will lose his nerve and then he will lose Chama, and probably the band too. That's why he doesn't let himself think rationally even for a minute, walking a good part of the distance and then, when his legs feel like they will give out on his next step, riding the rest of it in taxi.  
Chama's house greets him with an already familiar, unequivocal silence. No one answers the bell. No one answers the phone either when Motoo musters up enough courage to announce his presence via a call. Great, Motoo thinks. Now what.  
A dozen of galactic ship races (five wins, seven losses) and a bunch of wikipedia articles later, his phone is almost dead and it's completely dark outside, where he still is. Freezing, hungry and tired. Motoo shifts and stretches his legs out with a groan, almost welcoming pins and needles as they revive his limbs after staying in one position, crouched under a wall, for so long. He is about to browse another article, the one that will be the end of his phone battery for today, when he hears footsteps and then a voice. "Are you here to kill me?" makes him smile and raise to his feet.  
"I'm sorry, I forgot my phone in the car," Chama says as he climbs the last few stairs, grocery bags in both hands. He frees his right one by handing Motoo a handful of bags. "Have you been waiting here for long?"  
"Maybe five minutes," Motoo replies because he's learned his lesson and won't start another heart-to-heart with petulant accusations.  
In they go with all the food, leek leaves and a baguette sticking out of the bags while other contents stretch the plastic sides. Chama leads the way this time, straight to the kitchen where he takes the groceries from Motoo and tells him to sit down at the counter and wait. Why is everyone demanding that from him lately?  
"Are you going to cook me dinner?" Motoo is cautious to ask but does so nonetheless, going for light and casual.  
"Yes."  
Chama's back is turned to Motoo, his voice is flat. He procures a pack of raw tomatoes out of a bag and Motoo holds his breath.  
"What's for dinner then?"  
"Tomato soup. Great timing, by the way."  
"I didn't plot anything, if that's what you mean." _I didn't even think anything through as I dashed to you from the other end of the city._  
"I'm not saying you did," Chama drops nonchalantly. The unspoken part of the remark makes its way to Motoo's brain. Right, he didn't. The other two presumably did. Although, had they actually done it, he wouldn't have refused their help. Now is not the time to tiptoe around the issues. The tour, Motoo tells himself. The band. Chama.  
"Are you really cooking for me?"  
"I really am."  
Motoo pauses, taken aback by a blunt admission. After all these days of getting the cold shoulder.  
"Will you give me a hug too?"  
"Yes," Chama replies with a sigh.  
Now that doesn't feel right. That feels like storming an unassailable fortress, only to find the main gates left wide open. He didn't come all the way here to get what he wanted without applying any effort.  
"Let me help," he announces, beginning to slide off his chair.  
"No."  
"Yes."  
"No! Sit back on that goddamn chair and let me cook for you!" Chama turns sharply with a knife in his hand and pins Motoo down to his place with a glare. Motoo raises his hands in a placating manner. No need to get violent, jeez.  
"You know, the last time I heard you sound this pissed was when I used your favorite t-shirt as a dust rag, fifteen years ago."  
"Well, that is..." With another heavy sigh Chama's shoulders slump. He turns back to a serving table, picks a small tomato and rolls it under his fingers, clearly contemplating his next words. "Consider it a ritual I must perform. You can't help, or it won't work."  
And so, Motoo sits back on his goddamn chair and watches Chama practice his kitchen magic. Tomatoes get boiled and skinned, other vegetables get cut and mixed, then Chama chucks a slab of butter into a frying pan and from there on it goes way beyond Motoo's area of expertise. His own ultimate skill is to chop everything into even pieces and stir violently until it's cooked. He only ever sees these flashy moves in culinary shows on TV and whenever Chama cooks for him. And he still does cook for him, even now. The last few weeks made Motoo believe that Chama would sooner hurl a frying pan into his head than decide to prepare his favorite dish. Then again, maybe it wasn't Chama's own decision.  
"What was that pep talk about?" he asks, figuring this question is no more risky than the one about a hug. "Hiro says he totally helped."  
Chama snorts at that. His back is more relaxed now that he is in his element, pouring and stirring and spreading a heavenly aroma around the kitchen. Doing something he is genuinely good at. Not that he isn't genuinely good at music, of course. It's just that music is temporarily not working for him. For them. When Chama gets around to answering Motoo's question, it's with a fond exasperation ringing clear in his tone.  
"He was very helpful, yes."  
"That's what I thought."  
"He told me I had to do something. And he was right, you know. I have to stop doing this. Trying to guard my glass heart from..."  
"Me, breaking it again," Motoo forces himself to finish. If Chama was facing him now, he would, no doubt, reveal an impressive redness over his cheeks. Motoo knows, because his own are tingling so bad he wants to open the freezer to the right of the table and dive head first into it. Chama adamantly keeps his back turned to him but Motoo averts his eyes anyway. Letting your best friend suck you off is less embarrassing than this. Not that he needs to bring that up in his memory right now.  
"Let's talk about this later. Unless you want me to accidentally poison you," Chama says, his voice a little strained. Like that could ever happen. Motoo swallows his saliva and follows Chama's almost hypnotic stirring moves with his eyes. A rich aroma of spice, tomato paste and fried onions tickles his nostrils.  
"Why did you come?"  
Chama's inquiry pierces its way through his hungry haze. Why indeed. As effective as coming here unprepared was, it shows certain disadvantages.  
"Masu and I, we practiced a bit after you and Hiro left. He actually made me, but it turned out pretty well. He played... And then I decided to come here. To try and hear you."  
Motoo cringes at how lame his explanation sounds. But it makes Chama turn the heat under the pot down to the minimum and finally turn away from the stove. If there is some colour to his cheeks, it must be because of hovering over pans and pots for so long. His face is impassive, his eyes are tired. And it feels wrong too, that such an excitable and buoyant person looks so worn out. Chama crosses his hands on his chest but then, as if remembering himself, puts them down, twining his fingers loosely. Behind his back, soup simmers quietly under a lid. Chama looks Motoo straight in the eye.  
"How is it working for you then?"  
"I'm trying," Motoo replies gingerly. "Why does it have to be cooking?"  
"I couldn't think of anything better. More fitting. It had to be something I used to enjoy doing for you."  
"I don't like the sound of it."  
"Tough luck."  
They both frown. Motoo is about to back up from this quicksand conversation spot to safer grounds when Chama beats him to it.  
"Come here, I'll give you a hug."  
Before Motoo can catch himself, his body begins to move, as if on its own accord. He halts it forcefully mid-step, shooting Chama a questioning look. Chama opens his arms in encouragement. Well, that's what he wanted all along, right? Even though it feels like a trap he is going to walk into. Motoo walks right into it and wraps his arms tightly around Chama's back.  
Something shifts and clicks deep inside him, and then it comes, whatever he has been missing all this while. Chama smells of cooking oil, cologne and city dust. His body is warm, his chest is moving steadily against Motoo's own as they gradually match their breathing. His shoulders feel like the same solid support they've always been. Motoo squeezes even tighter, slots his chin into a crook between Chama's shoulder and neck and all but hangs off him. With a soft oof, Chama sags a little under an unexpected increase of weight but straightens up again, resilient as ever. He strokes Motoo's back briefly and then, turning his head, he mutters right into his ear:  
"Can you hear me now?"  
And with that, the trap swings shut. Motoo nods silently. Chama sighs into his temple.  
"I'm sorry. You can't imagine how sorry I am that I love you. On most days I wish that I didn't, and sometimes I even manage to convince myself that I don't. But you know how these things are. Feelings. You can't get rid of them. I tried and look where it brought me. I only made things worse for all of us."  
It's like a freeze spell has been cast on Motoo; he is temporarily stunned into immobility. His arms are twined around Chama like tree branches in a wicked, enchanted forest — unmovable, unbreakable. Do they feel like thorns digging into his skin everywhere they touch? Motoo tries to step away but Chama shifts along with him, just as securely trapped.  
"I resent myself more than you do," Motoo almost begins to say before a persistent beeping interrupts him, and in the next instant the spell is broken. Chama half turns in his loose hold to switch a timer off, then turns even more to lift the lid off the pot and check on soup. The smell that reaches Motoo's nose is nearly intoxicating. Except he is not hungry anymore.  
"Chama..."  
"It's almost ready, Fuji-kun, just a few more minutes," Chama cuts him off. His face is stony but Motoo takes it as a good sign, all things considered. At least it's honest, unlike a jovial mask he tends to hide his true feelings behind.  
"Let me help," Motoo asks again, letting go of him completely. Chama hesitates. His eyes are calculating, as though he is trying to decide if Motoo will ruin his rite at this stage. Eventually he yields.  
"If you want to. You can set the table."

Chama pours the broth into the blender, presses a button and watches all the ingredients become a smooth, dark red mass. An image comes to his mind; a clay Chama, looking like one of Motoo's puppets in the Guild movie, opens a panel in his clay chest and takes out his clay heart, old and chipped at the edges. That small Chama proceeds to put his battered heart into a toy blender and watch it become a smooth, dark red mass. His mind shuns away from gory images though; his inner director zooms in on the puppet's sad, lifeless eyes instead. I'm so dramatic, Chama thinks. It shouldn't be gory. There is nothing but clay dust. Behind puppet Chama's back, Motoo's miniature self is delicate and fine featured, nothing like his own rough design. Puppet Motoo sets two tiny bowls on a toy table, looking delighted with the prospect of dinner, not knowing yet that it's going to be a poor meal.  
"All ready. Chama. Chama!"  
Chama jumps and turns around - and there he is, just as delicate and fine featured as his imaginary counterpart. The real life Motoo stares at him quizzically and points at a completed set-out.  
"Yeah. Yes, I'm almost done," Chama stammers, turning back quickly and switching the blender off. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll join you in a minute."  
He pours the still steaming soup into a serving bowl, piles toasted pieces of baguette on one plate and celery sprigs on the other. Behind his back, a heavy chair scrapes softly over the wooden floor as Motoo makes himself comfortable at that stupid Victorian table. Chama should have gotten rid of it ages ago. He might actually burn it after this dinner.  
He puts all the plates on a tray and pauses for one final moment, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out. Time to feed the lions.

The following dinner is a quiet affair. The somewhat awkward silence between them is only interrupted by polite slurping and clinking of spoons at the bottoms of the bowls. For some reason, Motoo doesn't look so hungry anymore, and Chama can guess it's his fault again. Still, he finishes first, muttering his appreciation for the meal and pushing his bowl a little to the side. If it was a typical romantic dinner, now would be Chama's cue to open a bottle of wine and suggest they move somewhere more comfortable, a couch for example. There they would proceed to make out until both of them would be too horny to keep their clothes on and then they would move again, to the bedroom this time.  
As things are, they have water in their glasses, and Chama would sooner set himself on fire along with this stupid table than act even remotely seductive in Motoo's presence. Yet it feels like the right moment to start talking again, and apparently Motoo can sense it too seeing as he takes the lead.  
"Did it help? Cooking for me."  
Chama looks at him closely, finding neither mockery nor pity in his eyes. A genuine interest then. He shakes his head no. Then tunes more carefully to his inner state and shrugs maybe.  
"Should we check and see?" Motoo suggests.  
Chama shakes his head again, more stubbornly this time.  
"Why not?"  
"I'm not ready to admit defeat yet."  
"Defeat," Motoo repeats blankly. "Why would it be a defeat for you?"  
Chama is silent. Motoo shifts in his seat and leans forward. His hands are spread over the tabletop as if trying to reach Chama, his expression eager.  
"Let me hear you," he urges before asking, "What was the real purpose of this dinner?"  
With great reluctance, Chama complies. Because this dinner did have a purpose and he isn't going to defeat it now by playing mute.  
"You might find it weird but I wanted to resurrect that feeling of pure happiness I used to have when I took care of you."  
It's Motoo's turn to go silent as he slumps back in his chair and lowers his head, letting his thick bangs hide his face completely. His fingertips still touch the edge of the tabletop though, white from how hard he presses them against it, not letting them slip off.  
"So it didn't work ,” he concludes a few moments later, his voice a little more rough, a little more wet. Chama's ears soak those sounds up like a sponge.  
"I'm not sure I'm ready to forgive you just yet," he says.  
When Motoo straightens up and lifts his head, Chama's first impulse is to peer through his bangs, behind his glasses. He tilts his head and squints — and mentally slaps himself for being too pathetic even by his own almost rock-bottom standarts.  
"How can I earn your forgiveness?" Motoo asks, and his eyes are dark and determined and dry.  
"I don't know."  
Chama can hear how petulant it sounds but it's true, what he just said. He doesn't know what Motoo needs to say or do to stop being his greatest problem and start being his dear friend again. In his dreams of a perfect outcome there have ever been only two options; Motoo reciprocating his feelings or Chama losing them entirely. No in between. No half measures. Of course, neither of those options will ever come true to save the band and Chama's old, chipped heart along the way.  
After another minute of silent contemplation, Motoo removes his fingers from the table, leaning back fully, and opens his arms instead.  
"Come here."  
"What?" All anguished thoughts flee Chama's mind as it draws him a vivid picture of the pose Motoo is inviting him into. He stares across the table, bug-eyed, and blinks. "No."  
"It's my turn now," Motoo insists. "Come here, I'll give you a hug."  
Chama snorts incredulously.  
"No way. I'm not sitting on your lap."  
Without missing a bit, Motoo raises to his feet, keeping his arms spread wide. He looks ridiculous. He looks like he doesn't care.  
"Why?" Chama asks, still suspicious.  
"It's always easier to hear each other from a shorter distance."  
He can't argue with that. There are no proper arguments left in his arsenal whatsoever, so Chama rises from his chair, goes around the table and steps tentatively into Motoo's embrace.  
For the second time today he is overwhelmed with aching tenderness, guilt and responsibility — like what people must feel picking up stray cats and injured birds on the streets. It is a wrong impression though, a delusion of his compromised heart. Motoo is strong and sinewy, not at all a pitiful creature in need of gentle treatment. His arms are not frail but willowy as they wrap around Chama, making him feel warm and pliant, maleable under his skillful touch. This feeling is what keeps him alert. The mushier his legs become the more aware he is of it. That's why, when Motoo tugs him even closer and begins to lower them back on his chair, Chama's reaction is as quick as it is sloppy. He jerks away, trying to break out of the deceitful hold, and squawks in protest when it doesn't give. It's a short-lived struggle though, as not a moment later Motoo lets go of him, takes a step back — and trips over his chair.  
What follows after is a high-speed succession of flying limbs, stumbling steps and grabbing movements, accompanied by frantic yelps as Chama tries to break Motoo's fall. Then, for a split second, everything comes to halt, and the moment they're in stretches out indefinitely. It would be so romantic under different circumstances, Chama has time to think. Under the current ones it looks like a parody. They are in each other's arms again, but Motoo is clutching at Chama's shoulders for dear life, a spitting image of Mufasa in his final scene. They're peering into each other's eyes, but in that very moment their bodies careen fatally towards the floor. Motoo's eyes widen with a panicked realization of an imminent crash, and then everything comes back into motion.

"Was it a part of your cunning plan?" Chama asks when his panic subsides enough to give room to some exasperation.  
They both went down yelling but, unlike Chama, Motoo cried out in pain even before they landed. To top that up, when Motoo's head connected with the wooden floor, Chama heard a sickening crunch, and when he called his name in alarm, Motoo didn't answer.  
As to how Chama ended up staying on top of Motoo after all that occurred? In a meek tone people usually use to voice their last will at death's door, Motoo asked Chama to keep still until he stops seeing stars — and locked his arms around his back for good measure.  
"No, I swear," Motoo groans. "I'm not that self-destructive. Why did you have to start bucking like I was going to butcher you on the spot? Don't answer that. I have to tell you something.  
"What is it?" Chama whispers, suddenly apprehensive. Motoo puts his hand on the back of his neck and pulls his head down, almost making Chama sprawl on top of him again.  
"I will never not appreciate your love and care for me as fully as you deserve," he whispers in return. "Ever again."  
"I'm still not ready to forgive you," Chama stubbornly repeats, tasting the lie as soon as it flies off his tongue. Motoo is as good as granted amnesty now. What's left to do for Chama is to stomp on his pride and admit it out loud. Motoo chuckles fondly and begins to hum a melody. It's unfamiliar.  
"I will sing it to you in a thousand songs," he croons right into Chama's ear and runs his fingers through the short hairs at his nape. Chama's arms nearly give out under him as he shudders, a myriad of goosebumps crawling all over his upper body.  
"It's foul play, Mocchan."  
"One day we'll become stardust," Motoo keeps crooning, the melody now familiar in a way that it could only ever be born in this man's head, "and form a new constellation in the sky. You'll be the brightest one among..."  
"I don't want to become a star," Chama grumbles into Motoo's neck in a last feeble attempt of defense.  
"Alright then," Motoo sniffs and starts singing again, louder this time and in a different tune. "A time will come for us to shed our worn out skin. Maybe not on the same day, maybe not in the same place. I'm not good at predicting the future and I don't wish I was. I already know one thing, the one that truly matters. Maybe not on the same day, maybe not in the same place, but we will come back into this world. And when we find each other again, I will sing, in another thousand songs... How dear you are to me. Don't cry."  
"Shut up," Chama hiccups. Motoo strokes his head soothingly and presses his lips to Chama's temple.  
"Can you hear me now?"

 

Epilogue

  
"You cried out in pain, I heard it! Don't tell me it was nothing!"  
"It was nothing," Motoo wheezes from under him, being difficult again. It's like trying to pin an eel down to a cooking board, what with all the wriggling and kicking, although maybe it's more like trying to pacify an anaconda.  
"Let me see," Chama all but growls.  
"No!"  
"Yes!"  
Fed up with trying to settle the matter in an amicable way, Chama opts for a rougher one, seizing him up and then flipping him over. Motoo lands on his stomach with a startled gasp and lays still for a few seconds, enough for Chama to hoist the hem of his t-shirt and take a good look at his side. And there it is, in all its glory. A large, angry red graze peppered with crusted specks of blood where skin broke. It's going to bruise magnificently in less than an hour.  
"What's there?" Motoo mumbles, reaching back to probe at it with his fingers. Chama swaps at his hand and carefully lowers the hem.  
"I'll show you," he says serenely before shuffling down Motoo's body to sit on his thighs — and gives him a heartfelt smack of the ass. Motoo jumps in surprise, and then in protest, as Chama smacks him again. "The consequences of you being a royal idiot, that's what's there!"  
"How is it my fault?" Motoo screeches, starting to buck again, although amusement is thicker in his voice than genuine aggravation. "And aren't you supposed to blow on my boo boos and kiss them better?"  
"Don't worry, I'll tend to all your wounds," Chama assures him. "In a minute. First I want to map out all the consequences here."  
"Mercy?" Motoo tries in the same small voice he used earlier, except this time it doesn't sound all that convincing.  
"Nope."  
Motoo hums musingly, then folds his hands under his cheek like a pillow and relaxes under Chama. "Then do you worst."


End file.
